This is What They Do to Heroes
by TypewritingFangirl
Summary: "Things don't get better for guys like them in places like this." Alfred F. Jones is paying the price of his gangster ways and the death of his friends with a lifelong prison sentence. And when he sacrifices everything to play hero, he ends up close to breaking point… Human prison AU. Mentioned AmeBel/LietPol, forced RusAme.


**This Is What They Do To Heroes**

 **Warnings: Language – cursing, cursing, cursing! Violence, implied abuse, sad things... it may possibly trigger so don't read it if these things would really upset you awesome people x**

 **EDIT: The song this is based on is You Know What They Do to Guys like Us in Prison by My Chemical Romance (very catchy title, there…). I didn't realise that copying lyrics was an infringement of guidelines - thank you catspats31 for pointing that out - so I have since removed them. I'm sorry!**

 **DISCLAIMER: I don't own anything except my ideas and yet another pack of biscuits I'm sharing with any reviewers.**

 **America's a little OOC, but I'm not exactly being nice to him backstory-wise (its sort-of broken up FACE family). Human names for obvious reasons. I apologise profusely for my Russia – I hate writing Russia this way (and yet I always do…)**  
 **So, some backstory: Alfred and Matt are about twenty at the start of this – Peter is twelve. Their mum died when the twins were nine, leaving them with Francis who was… generally useless. Arthur tried to be a good father figure, but you know what his parenting is like. For money, Alfie and Matt became drug dealers, gangsters, and they got good at what they did. The rest is ficstory… (sorry, that was BAD.)**

* * *

From an unnecessary height, the infamous 'Hero' Alfred F. Jones lets the empty gun fall from his fingers, crooning his usual derisive laugh. Soon enough, anyone who's anyone will have discussed that callow action, as to whether he meant to spin the gun across the floor or not, whether it was truly the end for the 'Heroes', examining the symbolism across the breakfast news...

He's done.  
He's done.  
He's _so frickin' done._  
Let them make of it what they will.

He is quivering: with fading adrenaline, that last ever high, mounting fear... And also, oh-my-God, just for minute, this is what he was born to be!

Then he feels the dread.

Immediately, officers have the breath slammed out of him over a stained wooden table, punching more than patting in their search for concealed weapons. He loses his specs, winces as he hears them snap. Without them, he knows the world will fuzz into an oblivion of coloured smudges.

To be honest, he feels quite sorry for the ordinary diners. Well, actually, no he doesn't – they're all filming him on their smartphones anyway, with that middle-classy 'oh, we'll enjoy the gunfight and arrest later in bad quality mobile cam' attitude he simply can't abide, because this is his _life_. He can't escape and try again later – he's made all the wrong decisions already. Not that anyone helped him make the right ones…  
That's a lie. There were people.  
The people just didn't try hard enough, and then it was too late.

They lock the cuffs around his wrists and ankles, tight, and he can tell their palms are itching to use their Tasers. Maybe there are too many filming people about, or it's too early evening for police brutality: they've certainly had no problem with it before.

"PIGS!" he yells, just to get a rise, and barely feels the electric shock his mind is in such a tumult. But he stays still then, quiet as a lamb, thinking.

Killing Hernandez was a disappointment, really, in the end. The cheery old Cuban drug baron had seemed so tough, but it had taken only one bullet from the Hero Squad to put that dog down.

Hah... The Hero Squad. Such a dumb name: his twelve year old brother Peter came up with it, actually, claiming that they were the Robin Hood sort of criminals.  
They weren't. The Robin Hood sort of criminals don't survive a day.  
But they let the little boy believe it anyway.  
Anyway, the name had stuck, and where were the squad now?

Natalya (or Bela, as she permitted him to call her in her oh-so-rare sweet moods), his on-off off-on crazy chick with a penchant for leaving scars... dead. Kiku, his quiet Japanese sidekick, who was far more dangerous than he looked... dead. His twin brother, Matt, the almost invisible lookout, disappeared into the depths of the night…

 _And me... Oh Goddamn it, I was always supposed to be the hero! The hero of the Hero Squad! I always thought they would never get me… Well, they got Al Capone on tax evasion…  
Keep it together, Alfred, for chrissakes keep it together_!

"Alfred F. Jones, you are being arrested on suspicion of the murder of Juan Hernandez and Marie-Marta Garcia... As well as this, we have reason to believe..."

As they drag him bodily to the waiting van (he is not resisting; nor is he assisting; so he knows he has the right to note every sly kick or dig for when he sees his lawyer), he hears them listing his numerable crimes - some of which he hasn't personally committed, but he might as well have done so, because there's nobody else left to bring to justice.

Alfred is a strong believer in justice.

* * *

It feels as if they go out of their way to hit-every-pot-hole, but they arrive at the station and he is jammed in a storage cell. He wishes for sleep, but the electric lights burn through his eyelids.  
At two-thirty AM, he makes an admission.

 _Papa... I murdered someone... I murdered so many people…  
_ He can see in his mind's eye his 'no-good' papa, lying on the sofa with a weird cigarette staining his fingers, wine bottle hugged to his chest as close as Mattie clutched his old teddy polar bear. "What is it, Al? Mattieu?" he'd ask, his native French tongue dressing up every word as if it were special. "Papa's resting, go out and play."

"But it's raining, Papa… Peter's out of nappies… the other kids spit at us… the dealers are trying to get in… the money's all gone… please get up, Papa…"

Their problems would vary, but their Papa never did get off that sofa. He died there, eventually, when they were twelve years old, and they didn't notice for days – until the priest who tried to look after them somewhat, Father Kirkland, had visited and recoiled at the smell…

 _Papa, can you hear me, wherever you are? I'm praying, I guess… Not like you ever taught us to… it's a good job Father Kirkland kept us on the… um, straight and narrow.  
Okay, straight and narrow. Probably not the best of phrases to use, seeing as I'm here, but, well – he did try his goddamn hardest.  
You remember Juan Hernandez? Cuban? Dreadlocks? He broke into our kitchen twice; we woke up to him making pancakes that first time!  
_He pictures the scene – one of his happier times – remembering Matt's delight at trying maple syrup and his own experiments with different toppings. Pickled onion, beetroot, baked beans; each as gross as the last. Peter in his highchair, sucking at a small piece. Gangsters at the table, flashing their knives and squashing roaches.  
And people wonder why Alfred turned out the way he did.

 _Well, it turns out that you owed him a lot of money, Pap… but we got him back for you.  
We got him back tenfold._

He could reason with himself that Hernandez was a drug lord, gangster, an all-round bad guy; his Mexican chick Garcia wasn't much better, either. He could choose to think that it was kill or be killed, but really, Hernandez hadn't been prepared tonight.

Even in the terms of gang warfare, there is no real justification for what Alfred has done. He knows that. As much as he tries to convince himself otherwise, he feels bad. The man was almost another brother, as well as his 'arch-enemy'.  
But he feels guiltier for Bela and Kiku, his closest friends... They are cold and gone, because of a situation he drove them into – a situation that Kiku had always doubted; that he'd not told Bela the whole truth about… and for that he will never forgive himself.

And Peter… Peter, who they'd always tried so hard to look after, to keep out of governmental clutches… Peter must be fine. Is fine. Will be fine and will stay fine. Matt can look after him now, or that damn interfering social worker Tino Väinämöinen... (who is actually the only one who's ever come close to understanding their dysfunctional criminal family).

 _Papa?_

He hasn't prayed in so long, not since he stopped going to mass and started dealing drugs instead on Sunday mornings. It had felt to him a pointless, showy ritual, but the disappointment in Father Kirkland's eyes when he'd shunned the practice had torn into his soul. The kindness of that man: he never stopped giving them food, shelter, compassion…  
And now Alfred feels guilty again. Goddamn it!

"Papa Francis? Father Kirkland? Okay, this sounds crazy, but... I'm sorry, I guess?"

Said aloud, it sounds false. Worse – it just sounds nuts. He puts his head in his hands, and allows himself to cry for the very last time.

* * *

Someone came eventually to show him his new life and all the insane people within it. Most of them sit sloth-like in their 'recreation hours', mouths open, watching time tick by to far-off freedom. However, there are plenty of sly bastards too – the previous evening, a young man called Eduard Von Bock (inside for embezzling just under thirty-five million dollars) thrashed Alfred inside out at cards – hence the resulting forfeit:

"Four-ninety-six; four-ninety-seven, four-ninety-eight; four-ninety-nine; five hundred!"

Alfred rolls over onto his back, taking gulps of air like a choking fish and trying to focus on the face smirking down at him - he's still not got himself a new pair of glasses.

"Can I take this dress off now, you sicko, Łukasiewicz? Your weird fantasy complete?"

"Aw, like, Jonesy!" His Polish cellmate snickers, jumping back onto his bunk and sitting cross-legged. "Come on, you must have enjoyed it some? Toris Laurinaitis never complains."

"Yeah, well, Laurinaitis is your boyfriend and I am not."

"You sure, honey?"

"Łukasiewicz, I AM STRAIGHT! As straight as you are queer! Can you get that into your goddamn head?"

"Don't get angsty! I'm just trying to get in touch with the, like, inner you! Haven't you ever thought about your feminine side?"

Alfred can't help chuckling, though Łukasiewicz calls it the 'dying crow laugh'. "Actually, man? No. I'm taking this hideous thing off. How did you even get this?"

"I maybe, like, traded your cigs for it?"

"Damn you, you Polski! I needed those smokes to keep me heroic!"

"Like, they keep your poor fighting lungs heroic, that's what they do. And anyways, you seem pretty darn sure you're straight for someone that'll be in an all-male institution for the next twenty years... you know what I mean?"

For some reason, the statement reminds him of something Papa once said to Father Kirkland, and it makes him snort – but he echoes the long-suffering priest's answer from all those years ago. "Łukasiewicz, I – AM – NOT – GAY! I – AM – NOT – ABOUT – TO – BECOME – GAY! THAT'S – NOT – HOW – IT – WORKS!"

They can hear footsteps approaching down the corridor, and Łukasiewicz tenses as he always does.

"Why do you flinch like that?" Alfred asks as usual.

"I'm an old timer," he replies cryptically, before moving on to 'why do our uniforms have to be, like, such an unattractive shade of orange' or some other inane rubbish.

"OI! 3153 Łukasiewicz; 5520 Jones; get your unawesome selves out here!"

"Darn it; it's that stupid asshat, Beilschmidt!"

"I was hoping for his brother."

"No way! He's SO totally shouty!"

"At least he doesn't try to goad me into kicking his ass."

The door swung open. "Hey, I said GET OUT, fricking losers! Do you think you can just ignore me?"

"No, sir," Alfred forces the tinge of sarcasm painfully out of his tone. "But the door was locked, so we had to wait for you to open it."

"Are you messing vith me?"

"I'm not messing 'vith' you, sir." He gives Łukasiewicz the look which says, 'help me out before I smack him and get my head kicked in again', but the Polish cross-dresser pretends not to notice.

"You think you're so fricking clever, 5520," There is a dangerous tone to his voice. The selfish Pole begins to edge past on to the rec room, giving Alfred a little 'good luck' wave - the American responds with the middle finger, which of course Beilschmidt thinks is for him. And consequently, he ends up on the floor with a boot on his throat.

"Nobody tells me to fuck off, you little asshole! I am the awesome Gilbert Beilschmidt!"

"Heh… no evidence… of that," Alfred coughs, trying to move the boot off as it digs in. He slithers slightly out of reach.

"Hey, at least I'm not locked up like a little chicken in a vire cage, doing vhatever I'm told! Some gangster you are, 5520! 'Yes sir, no sir, cluck cluck cluck-'"

His move is almost superhuman: in a roll and a shove he reverses their positions, kneeling on Beilschmidt's chest and pushing at his throat. "You ain't so big now, are you?"

For a second he glares, his chest thudding with that all-consuming righteousness, with 'teach this punk a lesson'…but there's no point. He lets go, he stands up.

The white-haired guard ploughs him into the wall.

And that's how he ends up in confinement again. Sometimes singing his punk rock favourites, sometimes simply there in the straitjacket, eyes clamped shut against the reality of his imprisonment, picturing…

He tries for happy distractions – images of Peter playing ball with Tino, scoring hoop after hoop on some sunshiny front drive whilst a foster parent holds a plate of cookies at the door… Matt sitting in a bright white kitchen, studying for a college course…

Mostly, he keeps seeing Bela's brains spread across the restaurant tables on that fateful night. Or before, the first time Hernandez was truly angry, smashing the door down and beating the apathetic Francis until he coughed up the money he owed… The beating that probably ended Papa.

He's going mad this way.  
Better to not think at all, really.

* * *

"I miss comics." Alfred starts, hanging around his usual group.

"I miss America's Next Top Model," Feliks Łukasiewicz sighs vainly, flicking back his hair. "I've missed FOUR seasons, stuck in this place, now. FOUR. What about you, _kochanie?_ " He nudges Toris Laurinaitis gently.

Laurinaitis, a silent and sad Lithuanian man, is staring at a wall, and does not answer straight away. Eventually, he says; "My country."

"I miss the internet! Being whoever you wanted to be, creeping into networks and burning down government systems and causing panic in banks across the world…" Eduard Von Bock's fingers tap, as if he were placing them on a keyboard. Then he sighs. "And accounts. I was a great accountant."

"You miss accountancy? There's, like, no ACCOUNTING for taste." The Polish man giggles incessantly at his own joke.

"Get out." Von Bock eyerolls, trying to hold in his own chuckle. But it's rare that they get laughter, and they all relish in the way it lightens the mood.

The youngest inmate and follower is a Latvian kid called Raivis Galante, who claims he's fifteen but looks as young as Peter and cries for his 'mama' at night – she is the thing who he admits to missing. He adopts some of the others - Von Bock, Laurinaitis, even - as his protectors, but Alfred knows they can't keep him safe forever, not in this goddamned place. Not with asshats like Beilschmidt touring the halls.

Not from Braginsky.

He is a huge guy – a fellow prisoner, but he's been there so long that everybody seemed to have forgotten. A purple aura hangs thick about him on bad days, stopping anyone who'd try to approach (though why would you?). Usually he sits in the corner, gleefully watching people fight as he downs bottle after bottle of smuggled vodka. But sometimes he gets tired of all that, and comes slithering over like a snake to breathe down Toris Laurinaitis' neck, to ask who out of them would be his friend. Always with that innocent smile.

And tight, white knuckles camouflaged in a heavy scarf.

Alfred isn't sentenced to the chair like he'd feared – it is almost worse: life, without the opportunity of parole. But at least he gets to see Peter in court, all dressed up nice in a little blue hat, waving at him from between Tino Väinämöinen and some foster guy called Berwald as they read out the verdict. Matt is still missing: they never found his body, and Alfred clings onto the hope of him walking through those prison gates with a sweet billion in bribes and busting the five of them out of there.

All five of them, because they form a proper group; what Alfred likes to call the 'New Hero Squad' or 'Hero Squad: The Sequel.' Featuring… Eduard Von Bock, embezzlement extraordinaire; Feliks Łukasiewicz, master of disguise; Toris Laurinaitis, gentle king of crisis management; Raivis Galante, the cute mascot; and Alfred F. Jones, um, the hero!

One time, however, they aren't there to look after Galante – no, always fully Raivis Galante: he felt too short in stature to have his name truncated too. Von Bock and Laurinaitis are being screamed at by a guard named Ludwig in the freezing exercise yard; Łukasiewicz is mopping in a gingham frock and singing the entire track list of Annie; and Alfred (having fallen into Beilschmidt's goading trap yet again) is unblocking and cleaning toilets. It's perhaps a good - or bad, depending on your viewpoint - that he is there when Braginsky drags the boy in. Because from the third cubicle he can hear everything without being seen.

"Please, I d-d-don't w-want to! Don't, no… not that! OW!"

"I don't care what you want, da? I want what I want, and I always get it. And I want to see you broken."

"You... Y-y-you don't scare me!" The little Latvian responds, but then gives another cry of pain.

"Don't I? Well, I should do. Now… keep… quiet!"

With mounting horror, Alfred realises what is going to happen. He knows Raivis Galante must be fairly tough; the little guy is a binge drinker, and must have done something to get himself jailed, but Braginsky is another class of criminal altogether...

* * *

Almost without thinking, the Hero walks into another death trap, squaring his shoulders and marching out to confront Braginsky. The kid is shirtless, ribcage heaving, tied to a sink by his wrists with a mess of tears and blood gushing down his face. The man just looks vaguely surprised to be interrupted.

As if this is... Oh God, it can't be normal?!

" _Privet_ , um... Johns, da? Haha, my memory…"

"You know perfectly well that it's Alfred F. Jones," the American spits, his gangster voice coming back with his rage. "Now, let go of him."

"Why should I?" The Russian asks, innocent as ever, but his eyes are gleaming with piqued interest. He settles himself in a basin, tapping his left foot rhythmically against the wall. A distraction technique? Intimidation? Whatever it is, it's making Alfred as touchy as live wire.

Alfred stares at him, trying to gaze him down as if they're in some Cowboys vs Indians movie. "You bastard. Let Raivis go - never touch him again - and-"

His tongue betrays him: it will not say those horrific words, not even to save a pitiful young boy. He tries again to loosen it.

"Never touch him again, and you can have... Me."

"What?! Jones, are you in-in-ins-s-sane?" Raivis shrieks. "You c-can't be s-s-seriously s-suggesting-"

"Whenever I like, da? For whatever I like?"

Alfred nods, knowing that if he tries to speak he'll yell: "NO! NO WAY IN DAMNATION! GET ME THE FRICKIN' HELL OUT OF THIS CRAZY NIGHTMARE!"

"N-no! Jones! I'm out of here in f-five years, you can't-"

He looks into the terrified violet eyes, and can see Peter in them, and damn, he always had to be everyone's saviour. "Just get out." Alfred mutters, teasing the knots out of the rope. "Get far away from here, kid, and keep your goddamn big mouth shut. Go get Laurinaitis: he's the guy, he'll look after ya..."

"LAURINTAITIS USED TO B-BE Y-YOU! HE USED TO BE THE H-HE-HERO! AND N-N-NOW-"

"Get. The hell. OUT!"

Raivis Galante looks despairing, but he doesn't have to be told again – hating himself, he runs for his life.  
Alfred doesn't blame him.  
Much.

"A nice little boy, _nyet?_ Though he cries too much. I get angry when people cry, Alfie."

"Don't call me-" he starts, before a fist knocks him to the floor, and he realises he's in no position to argue.

* * *

"You are not the first," Laurinaitis whispers one day at dinner, before his eyes drop back to his food. Alfred's fuzzy eyes are ringed with bruises, shoulders hunching over his plastic tray as he chews on something tasteless.

"You're, like, not the first," "Łukasiewicz informs him as he swings upside down like a bat on the bunk bed, before clearing the painful thoughts from his mind with some simple comment. "Guards in skirts would be so much cuter, don'tcha think…?"

"You're certainly not the first, and you won't be the last," Von Bock rasps. "But I'm not going to end up like the other two – one so deeply damaged and the other losing his mind from blaming himself... I'm an independent person! I'm a gambler; I'm a fighter; and it's not right that he should bully the weak!"  
Eduard Von Bock says these things, but he isn't a hero, and it's all merely words – he trembles with fear if you so much as touch him, just a desperate boy frightened too behind his deadpan and forgery.

"I'm sorry," is Raivis Galante's constant interjection; apologising, apologising, apologising.

And always. Alfred is someone's property, and it's like other prisoners can smell it. Like his humiliation is on full display, and they all play a part. He never knows where the next attack will spring from, random trip-ups or stuff thrown or food down the back of his neck, but of course, it's the big guy himself he fears the most…  
He doesn't get beaten on so much anymore – he's learnt that fighting back against an extremely powerful madman is pointless.

Everything is pointless.

Now and again, in the solitude of confinement, he starts to understand the loneliness, the deep mental illness and fear of loneliness scarring Braginsky, so he takes it. He takes it all, thinking that at least it's not the kid's ribs breaking under the pipe. The kid's heart. The kid's hope.

Now and again, he doesn't understand, and wants the torture to end. He can't bear the brunt of this any longer, the bruises on his back, the wounds that make walking difficult and sleeping impossible when he lies on his hard bunk, bandages makeshift and crap and pointless too.

Why don't they seem fazed?  
Why don't the screws care?  
Why doesn't anyone who's supposed to listen, _listen_?  
…and why is this new to him, when it shouldn't be?

Braginsky finds out everything about Alfred, through sobbed words of: "stop, I'll tell you, just stop, man!" Or physically, his unintelligible violet eyes staring through his privacy like laser beams.

And Alfred realises Matt is never coming, never. Peter is probably starving in some shoddy, shitty foster home, his nice clothes just another one of the lies of the system which fails and failed him. Kiku and Bela had no funerals that honoured their beauty and talents and the way they made the world brighter even whilst doing dark, dark deeds. Father Kirkland's preaches to an empty church, empty even of sinners.

The guards don't make it easier. Beilschmidt won't stop attacking and taunting him, but he rises to the bait on purpose, because if he's in the straitjacket then the Russian can't get to him for a while.

He takes the mocking kisses from anyone who'll give them, because they're not kicks.

"You can do it, Jonesy! You can make it through this! It gets better!" Von Bock encourages him constantly – he's getting far less abuse since Alfred sold himself, since Alfred took more for him too like Toris had before he broke so much. "You're the hero, right?!"

"I-I'm the h-hero…?"

"You're the hero. Right?"

"I-I-I'm th-the…"

"Al-Alfred? You're the hero?"

"I-I-I'm…"

* * *

He's losing it. Maybe that faucet pipe or that gauntleted fist has jarred his skull once too often, because Kiku and Bela become foggy names, patched onto the edge of his recollection. Matt and Peter are clearer, but not quite. Father Kirkland and Papa Francis only appear in dreams, one like an angel, one more demonic, whispering things into his shattered mind. No other thoughts can protect him now when he's alone with Braginsky, looking into his soulless gaze.

He barely talks to the others, afraid to show them how much he's collapsed in onto himself, but they can see. Surely, surely, they can see?

 _Why don't they save me? Why do they ask so much of me, when I can't, when I can't…_  
 _I am broken._  
 _I am irreparable._

 _I am the new Laurinaitis, and I cannot hold back the dark for them all._

When he sleeps, he lives in memories of people that he no longer knows. Father Kirkland's soft posh old English accent in nine-year-old ears, smoothing back his hair, forcing him into a suit for his mother's funeral. A little kid called Peter, chipping a tooth after running full-pelt into a wall to test his 'super powers' (which did not exist, it appears). Someone else's Papa, singing a French song that nobody could interpret. A quiet boy who looks just like him, catching him out in countless baseball games… the first time this girl Bela kissed him – and scraped her nails across his chest simultaneously… when someone called Kiku stole a cat during a break-in… the laughter…

 _The dreams get nicer and nicer and nicer and nicer…  
And…  
And…  
_ _ **And…**_ _  
I don't want to wake up from them anymore_.

An idea.

 _I don't_ **have** _to._

* * *

He knows his plan. The very next time someone makes a move against him, he will snap: he will make a move back so shocking that things in this place will have to change. He's sick of life and sick of pain, but a kid like Raivis – who shouldn't be in here – ought to have a chance.

An institution to help him, rather than crush him down and abuse him as it had, Raivis Galante whispered to him once, _not for the first time._  
The kid and Peter and all the hopeless children he'd ever known in his run-down neighbourhood merged in his addled mind: he needed love and he needed trust and he needed a better hero that Alfred could ever be.  
Damn it, they all did.

Yes, Alfred was not the first.  
But for his friends, he swore, he would be the very last.

Maybe he was the Robin Hood sort of criminal after all.

* * *

In a year or so, when the ghost of Alfred F. Jones walks into the rec room, seemingly well again, with dollars in his pocket and swinging his arms… for the first time in his life, people notice the man, though the some of the cast has shifted and changed with suicides and sentences and suffering.

They've all heard the stories of the heroic American, who killed a fellow prisoner with his own scarf to protect a young kid from assault; who killed a sadistic red-eyed screw with his bare hands; who ran into a hail of bullets to end his sorry life…

Who for all his heroism made nothing better.  
Who for all his heroism, would never be the last.  
Things don't get better for guys like them in places like this.

Matthew is a little taken aback at the fluffy haired boy who comes flying at him, hugging him as if he will never let go.

"Y-Y-You're back! You're back! It was all another n-nightmare, Jones! It was all another nightmare! I didn't kill you! Oh Jones, I'm s-s-so sorry…"

"Oh… I'm, I'm not Alfred! I'm Matt Williams, his twin brother? Oh, no bother: he probably wouldn't have mentioned me. And kill him, eh? My brother's pretty tough: I'm sure you didn't."

The almost shy smile proves it. Raivis Galante peels away, and looking to Eduard behind him, doesn't know what to say.

Because he knows what it's like to be the reason someone dies.  
And he's sure he did.

* * *

 **Rather long one-shot = done! Um, I kind of destroyed and killed Alfie… ;(**

 **~ Juan Hernandez – my preferred name for Cuba  
~ Marie-Marta Garcia – Mexico**

 **~Robin Hood took from the rich to give to the poor. Things did not turn out well for him.  
~Al Capone was an American gangster who bootlegged alcohol during prohibition, etc – though apparently (from what we learnt in History) he had quite a nice prison cell…**

 **I want to know what all the others did to get sent to prison now… and who got out… and ACH I need closure on my own story. But I will never get it, because sometimes lives end and stories stop. That's that.**

 **With that cheerful statement, this is B, out.  
Reviews get you off Death Row!**

 **I am fighting a horrible monster: its name is Writer's Block, and it is trying to keep me from the next chapter of my story. But I am fighting, and I think I can beat it!**


End file.
